


Out Of His System

by platoapproved



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Dirty Talk, Hand Jobs, M/M, Platonic Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Street Racing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-24 18:20:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4930210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/platoapproved/pseuds/platoapproved
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Noah gives Ronan a quick and nasty handjob while dirty talking to him about Kavinsky, because that's what friends are for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out Of His System

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, I'm just appalled there isn't more Noah porn in this fandom. And if that means I'm going to have to turn my incredibly questionable erotica skills to the task, well then so be it.
> 
> Apologies if there are errors: the only way I can write porn is never look back, and then just FLING IT ONLINE before I have a chance to think twice.
> 
> Please don't judge me if this is terrible.

There were times when it was a blessing, being able to read his friends’ thoughts. And other times when it was really, really not. 

This was one of those other times.

They were only halfway through Gansey’s week-long absence from Henrietta, but Noah had already decided it was time for an intervention. Ronan had been out street racing the last three nights: twice in the BMW, and once in the Pig, using the keys that he had taken from his dreams. If Noah didn’t do something, he was sure that one of these nights, Ronan was either going to crash and get himself killed like a fucking idiot, or he was going to skip the racing and beat Kavinsky up so badly that he would get himself arrested.

Noah didn’t like the sound of either outcome.

“If you keep making that face at me, I’m gonna throw you out of the car,” Ronan warned. Noah could only see him in intermittent slashes of orange light from the streetlamps. All the muscles in his neck and arms were tense; he was on the prowl for Kavinsky, who was proving harder to find tonight than he had the last few nights.

“I’m not making a face.”

Ronan scoffed, his razor-sharp smile never faltering. Noah could hear the exultant emptiness of his mind. That was why Ronan loved this, he knew. In the driver’s seat, with the loud bass rattling his bones, the vibrations from the engine numbing him like a drug, he became all body and no mind. The big, complicated, terrible world was reduced to a tiny sphere of sensation and _want_. There was no past, or future, and to Ronan, that was happiness. 

Which would have been fine, except it was probably going to get him killed.

Well, Noah wasn’t about to let that happen. He liked his friends alive, thanks very much. He couldn’t change Ronan—and even if he could, he wouldn’t want to—but he had to do something. Luckily, it was easy enough, coming up with a plan.

Ronan caught a glimpse of a white car a few blocks ahead, and his heart stuttered, adrenaline kicking into gear. His hands tightened on the wheel, his legs so tense they shuddered. Ronan shivered as a bead of sweat made its way down the small of his back. 

It was almost sweet, how little Ronan knew himself, Noah thought. He misinterpreted the signs his own body was sending him, ran the self-evident reactions through a dozen filters of shame and sense and upbringing and denial until they were so garbled he could pretend it was anything other than lust that had brought him out, night after night, looking for release.

Well, there were plenty of ways to find that, other than racing.

The white car had not been Kavinsky. It was a police cruiser.

“Fuck,” Ronan hissed. “No wonder he didn’t fucking show.” He wasn’t afraid of getting a ticket, but he had been ready for a race. He had been waiting for it all day. Ronan didn’t think he could face driving back to Monmouth, unsatisfied. But he didn’t see what other choice he had, if Kavinsky was too much of a coward to risk it.

Noah knew his moment when he saw it. “Pull into that alley,” he said.

“What?”

“Just do it,” Noah said, words clipped.

It wasn’t often that Noah ordered anyone to do anything; most of the time he opted for mute flailing or gentle pleading. Ronan pulled into the alley, more out of curiosity than anything else. He did not shut off the engine, and the gasoline smell began to work its way into his nose, sexy and dangerous.

“Why the fuck—” but he didn’t get a chance to finish that sentence. Noah cut him off with a hard, cold kiss. Of course, Noah didn’t have any real aggression in him, but he did his best to fake it, for Ronan’s sake (and his best was better than people gave him credit for).

Ronan had no idea what had come over Noah, but after a few shocked seconds, he didn't care. He kissed back, mouth falling open and eyes sliding shut.

Ronan didn’t know that Noah could look into his dreams, the same way he could look into his thoughts. And he had seen them all, those dreams that woke Ronan in a hot sweat: dreams of Kavinsky, Adam, and—now and then—Gansey. Noah had observed how, in the heat of Ronan’s subconscious, Gansey’s stuffy nobility became a beautiful tyranny, in the face of which, Ronan could only crumble, supplicant. He had seen how Ronan’s mind turned uncertain, self-conscious Adam into a cruel, haughty doppelganger, who laughed at all Ronan’s imperfections even as he crooked a beckoning finger. Noah had seen Kavinsky in Ronan’s dreams, his sleaze and pettiness burned away, a demon with fire for eyes and a wide sharp-toothed mouth, ravenous, devouring Ronan alive.

For Noah, who didn’t have a trace of masochism in him, it all seemed rather unusual. He didn’t think Ronan really wanted any of those things. Ronan didn’t want anyone to really hurt him; Noah had had that happen to him, and he knew it wasn’t possible to fully understand it, and still want it.

But there was clearly something that Ronan had to work out of his system.

Ronan was Noah’s friend: if that was what he wanted, Noah was willing to play the part. He thought he had enough darkness in him to do it serviceably.

Noah could feel the pulse just under Ronan’s skin, thudding away, a quick staccato. There wasn’t much about Ronan that could get mussed—his clothes were too informal, his hair too short—but his pupils were dilated, and his breathing was shallow. That was enough to tell Noah he was on the right track.

Noah broke off the kiss, moving his mouth to Ronan’s neck, biting harder than he wanted to. Ronan, it seemed, judging by his gasp, wanted it plenty for the both of them. Noah thought about a vampire joke, but restrained himself from sharing it. Levity wasn’t the right tone, right now. 

“Racing makes you horny, right?” he asked, lips moving against Ronan’s neck, even though he already knew the answer. He laid a hand on top of Ronan’s thigh, pressing hard. It would be better if his hand were hot, but there wasn’t really anything he could do about that.

“Noah…” Ronan’s voice was a croak. Noah saw that he was already half-hard. That hadn’t taken long.

“Probably something Freudian to do with the gearshift, right?” Noah thought that maybe he should have figured out if there were a way to adjust the seat in the Camaro. There wasn’t much room, between Ronan and the steering wheel. Lucky for Noah, he was a incorporeal, and could make himself fit no matter what. He slithered into Ronan’s lap and focused on making himself feel heavy, and solid. Ronan let out a small noise in the back of his throat. Noah thought that was a good sign.

There were a lot of things that Noah couldn’t do, because he was a ghost. But Ronan had been aching for days, and Noah thought it wouldn’t take much. One of the things he had left to him was his voice, and he was going to make good use of it.

“You noticed you only ever seem to race against _guys_?” Noah slid his hand higher on Ronan’s thigh and felt him twitch involuntarily, swallowing hard. Noah pressed his forehead to Ronan’s. Internally, he felt ridiculous, half guilty and half silly. It was like a highwire act. If he thought about what he was saying, what he was doing, he would lose all confidence. Would remember that he was just Noah, rumpled and awkward and shy. Noah listened hard for Ronan’s thoughts, and they were an elated stream of _fuck, fuckfuck oh fuck, please—!_ He didn’t doubt the act, and his willingness to buy the illusion helped Noah maintain it.

“There are other racers. Girls race. Old dudes race. But you only _rev your engines_ for the ones like Kavinsky.” Noah bit the shell of Ronan’s ear, and a shudder ran through him. There was sweat standing out on his upper lip. Ronan licked it away, lifting his hips up from the car seat an inch in wordless impatience. He might not know how to ask with words, but his body was making itself perfectly clear.

“You keep thinking about how much you want to fuck him up,” Noah asked, unfastening Ronan’s expensive jeans, tugging them down a few inches, taking Ronan’s boxers with them. He had the momentary thought that Gansey had better never find out that he was responsible for Ronan sitting bare-assed in the driver’s seat of the Pig. It was better than him crashing it, anyway. “Hasn’t it ever occurred to you that you just want to _fuck_ him until he’s _fucked up_?”

Ronan was breathing harshly through his open mouth, which Noah took as a confirmation. Without ceremony or warning, Noah wrapped a hand around his dick. He bit the inside his cheek to suppress a giggle when Ronan gasped at the not terribly pleasant temperature of his hand, but he didn’t give him much time to think about it. He started to jerk him off immediately, fast and messy, relentless. Just the way he thought Ronan would want it.

“ _Fuck_ , Noah—!”

Noah knew he had to keep talking, keep Ronan’s mind from latching onto anything outside the two of them, in this tiny sphere of time.

“Or maybe it’s the other way around, and you want _him_ to fuck _you_ up? Bend you over the hood of his car and give it to you so hard you can’t see straight?”

Ronan’s hands were curling to fists at his sides, a vein standing out in his neck, his expression twisting into something almost like pain. Noah had felt that jolt that went through Ronan at this latest image, but Ronan still panted a disagreement, as if by principle. “As- as _if_.”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it,” Ronan could feel the coil of the approaching orgasm starting inside him, so Noah felt it, too. He had underestimated how much the vicarious thrill of it would get to him. Noah hadn’t had a body in a long time, had almost entirely forgotten how sweet that building tension could be. But he couldn’t let himself get distracted by it, couldn’t forget that this was for Ronan. “You’ve imagined it before, how it would feel for him to bite you—” at this, Noah bit the curve of Ronan’s neck, and Ronan let out a breathy, erotic _ah!_ He was getting close; Noah moved his hand more quickly, a frantic pace. Ronan curled forward, burying his face against Noah’s shoulder, mouth open wide, eyes screwed shut. “How it would feel to let him fuck you, and keep fucking you until you screamed—”

Ronan did not scream, but he did whimper, his whole body shuddering as he came. Noah kept stroking him through it, until Ronan winced, oversensitive. Noah let go, wiping his hand rudely on Ronan’s designer jeans. By some miracle, none of it had gotten on the seat. Ronan sagged back, his arms limp and his eyes closed. In another minute or two, discomfort would come, from the sweat and come and awkward angle, but for the moment, Ronan was warm and buzzy and serene.

There was no way, Noah thought, that he would be getting into any more trouble—at least for tonight. As far as he was concerned, that was a victory.


End file.
